


Roxy

by Laurasauras



Series: Hidden Bloodlines [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gangsters, Manipulation, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 09:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16261478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: How Dirk and Roxy met. Read Hidden Bloodlines first if you want more context.Roxy wants out of a bad situation and she's decided that the big scary vampire is the one to help her out.





	Roxy

**Author's Note:**

> Roxy's underage and Dirk is definitely old enough to know better. Trust her to still hold the reins in the relationship.

You make sure your dress isn’t visible outside of your coat before you leave the house. You want attention, but not the kind that comes from your foster father. Never that kind. One day you’ll be an actress, with the way you melt from role to role. Even though with your grades you could be a doctor, you’ll be an actress. 

Because you’re good at it. You’re acting the boring schoolgirl, slouching out of the house to go to a boring schoolgirl sleepover. And then, two blocks away, you pull your hair from your ponytail and shake it out like the superstar you are, apply lipstick (the rest of the makeup already done, men never notice the effort unless it’s  _ red _ ) and stand up properly. 

When you look like this, why would you ever need to be nervous.

In your head, you narrate in third person because it helps you stay in character.

_ Roxy walks down the street with entrancing confidence. The setting is lit by the harsh glare of streetlamps and her heels are clicking in perfect time because she’s a gal who makes a dance out of walking to the club. You might ask, what’s a dame like her doing in a place like this? She wouldn’t answer. She’d just smile at you with the kind of smile that made you forget there was even a question that got asked in the first place.  _

If you were directing the movie of your life, you’d have saxophone playing smoothly in the background, maybe a bit of double bass, some frisky piano notes to counterbalance the slow sway of music. If you were directing the movie of your life, all the background music would put folks in the mood to  _ fuck. _

There isn’t a bouncer on the door, because there never is. It’s a secret club, a bouncer draws attention. Why would a shoe store have a bouncer? The door to the club at the back of the store is unlocked, because of course it is, your information is good. You walk in like you’ve done this a million times. One day you will have, it just so happens that you haven’t done so yet.

You hang your coat on the rack at the door, because not trusting your belongings in here would be inexcusably gauche. You have money tucked into your garter, there’s nothing you can’t lose in the coat. You hope you won’t have to use your own money anyway.

You like the way your dress hangs off you, like the contrast between the black silk and your pale skin, likes that eyes are on you as you choose a table. You sit next to a man smoking a cigarette.

‘You wouldn’t happen to have one for me?’ you ask, casual but friendly.

The man smirks and hands you a cigarette. You put it carefully between your lips and lean in so he can light it. If the way you smoke looks practiced, it’s because it is. It’s a prop, like everything is. 

You couldn’t care less for the taste or the feeling. You’re not one to get addicted to things. Which is lucky in a gambling house, surrounded by smoke and the promise of gentlemen who might enjoy buying you a drink. You’re sure there’s less savoury things on the table, too.

You meet the dealer’s eyes and give him your best smirk.

‘What’s the minimum?’

The dealer opens his mouth to answer, but something behind you makes him shut up and pay attention. You flick your head around, forgetting to be cool and collected, just for a moment. 

‘You’re too young,’ says a man in a truly horrendous green suit.

You’re prepared for this. You  _ are _ too young.

‘A lady never admits to her age,’ you say.

‘Walk out,’ he says.

‘Come on, Crowbar, she’s not doing any harm,’ the man who gave you the cigarette says. 

You flash him a brilliant smile.

Pain floods your head as Crowbar grabs you by the hair and drags you up to standing. He lets go and you stumble a little. 

‘Walk out, or you will be walked.’ He stabs his finger at your new friend. ‘You can see her out and all.’

You choose to walk, only just remembering your coat when you see it. Your friend stands outside with you for a moment and then offers you a fresh cigarette. You don’t know what happened to the last one. You accept it, shakily.

‘Crowbar’s a piece of work,’ he says.

‘Thank you. I … hope I didn’t get you into trouble.’

‘Naw. What’s a girl like you doing in a place like that, anyway?’

The line is so similar to the one you made up for yourself earlier that you nearly giggle out of sheer nerves. 

‘I’m looking for the love of my life,’ you say dryly.

The man chuckles as he flicks ash away from you. It’s true, though.

‘I got a little money I’d like to turn into a lot of money,’ you say when he doesn’t seem likely to continue conversation until you tell him something better.

This line he accepts. It’s more believable, even if it is the cover story.

‘There’s another club. A … well, you knew where to find this one, you know who they are?’ You nod. ‘Well, they’re gentlemen of a similar persuasion. Maybe a little less class. I don’t think you would have any trouble getting in.’

‘Would you walk me?’ You ask.

He holds out an arm and you take it. You walk slowly down the street.

‘What’s your name, doll?’ he asks.

‘Roxy,’ you say. You’d considered a fake name, but it isn’t like that would stop someone from finding you. 

‘Now, I’m just walking with you, I ain’t tried nothing on, have I?’

‘No, sir.’

‘How old are you.’

‘16,’ you lie. It wouldn’t do to try the same line about not giving out your age again. And he deserves a straight answer, if not an honest one.

‘If you were 16, you would have lied and said 18, I know how your type works.’

You don’t reply.

‘Seems to me that a girl who goes poking her nose in gang business has her own reasons for doing so,’ he says.

You let your cigarette fall to the ground and step on it lightly. You haven’t smoked so much that your breath will smell. You’re not a fool.

The man leads you into a restaurant, waves the Maitre D away and guides you through the kitchen, out the other side. This room is a lot less classy than The Felt’s club, but it has a sort of charm. 

No one asks how old you are.

You walk away with only $10 more than when you started, because you’re not so fool as to think winning will help you make friends. You use the $10 to buy a bottle of wine for the table. You’re not so fool as to think that will make you friends either, but it’s a step in the right direction. You’ve already ruled out the man who escorted you, a guy who goes by Diamonds Droog. He doesn’t want drama. You need a little drama.

*

You play poker with the Midnight Crew almost every week after that night. You don’t make a lot of money, just enough to earn respect, and don’t lose a lot of money, just enough to earn a bit of pity, to make sure you aren’t a threat. You’re just Roxy, a cute girl with an easy laugh who flirts harmlessly with everyone. You tell them when it’s your birthday and they bring out a cake at the next game. They tactfully don’t ask about your age. You really are 16 now. You haven’t had a birthday cake since you were eight.

You know he’s the one when you see him. He’s tall, pale and blond, his suit is out of date and it does nothing to hide his muscular frame He glares at everyone like they’ve done him personal wrong. He comes in with Jack and barely seems to focus on the cards when the game starts. 

He doesn’t focus on  _ you  _ at all. 

‘I’m a bit of a history buff,’ he says, too casually to be casual, halfway through a hand. ‘Been looking back at the names of the Crew over the years. Ever heard of a fella called Diamonds?’

No one says anything. You follow their lead, despite the fact that Diamonds is sitting next to you, as is his habit. He looks after you, though true to his word he’s never tried anything on.

‘Woulda been thirty years ago,’ he says.

Diamonds would have been maybe five back then. It’s clearly a code name. You assumed that was the case, but it’s interesting that they reuse them. Jack makes a mildly interested noise, but no one helps the guy out. He’s got the subtlety of a brick. 

No one complains when you manage to get $200 out of him. Diamonds gives you a tiny affectionate punch on the chin.

‘That’s our girl,’ he says. 

You smile in the most femme fatale way you know how, and he still barely notices you. He doesn’t care about the money. Another point in his favour. He might just be your soulmate. Richness is a very nice virtue, after all.

Well, you’re a smart girl and you have personal friends in the second biggest gang in town. You’ll figure him out. 

He’s so confident that it’s almost too easy to follow him. You could have pickpocketed him several times over, but you don’t. You wait outside his apartment every night you’re not at the club until you finally see him leaving one night. He doesn’t even lock the door.

His apartment is exactly as messy as you expected, seeing as he’s a single guy in his 20s. But it’s not dirty. You look through the apartment slowly and thoroughly. You’re not afraid of him finding you there. In fact, that’s kind of the point. 

He has a lot of weapons, some guns but mostly blades. He has various bits of technology, mostly taken apart as if he’s studying it. He has no food. Not in the way that a person might neglect their shopping and end up with a couple of jars of salsa and a limp celery in their fridge. He doesn’t  _ own _ a fridge, his pantry is empty, there aren’t even little bits of onion skin or whatever showing that it is a pantry. 

The furniture is cheap but the curtains are expensive. Heavy. There’s something here that isn’t adding up. You climb down the fire escape just in case he comes home when you’re sneaking out. You’ll save surprising him in his apartment for another day. 

You hadn’t considered that in finding a guy to save you from your foster father you might get stuck with someone you couldn’t handle.

*

You find his credit card statements. They only go back a year. Same story with his driver's licence. With all his ID. 

Something is going on.

He never goes out during the day and his curtains stay firmly closed, no matter if it’s beautiful and sunny or pouring rain or any other kind of weather. 

You ask Jack if he knows if he’s had any lovers. He coughs a little awkwardly and you throw your head back and laugh.

‘What was he like?’ you ask.

Jack just raises his eyebrows.

‘That good?’ you say.

‘Why are you sticking your nose in, baby girl?’

‘Something’s strange about him,’ you say. ‘Hey, this is a weird question, but did he give you a hickey?’

Jack loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt with a smirk.

Well, at least you don’t feel stupid for even considering it. Because that sure looks like the kind of mark a vampire would make if they bit you. You wonder how Jack explains away twin puncture marks on his neck.

You take a whole night off from your amateur espionage and sit in your room, thinking about it. You’re not the kind of girl who will deny the existence of something when there’s proof. You don’t mind that they’re supposed to be fictional. 

The bigger issue is what this means for your plan.

Because Jack’s still alive. In fact, Jack’s never looked better. He’s got something of a vitality to him that he hasn’t had before, not as long as you’ve known him. Some strange side effect? Perhaps. 

Jack’s a man, does that mean that you are out without a chance? He didn’t seem interested in you at all, but he didn’t seem that interested in Jack either. You think he’s just a dick. You won’t know if you don’t try.

*

You break into his house again. You bring all the fixings to make yourself vodka martinis. Easy enough to make, just vodka, vermouth and olives. And a  _ younger _ drink than a gin martini, somehow. You know enough of his routine to know when he’s likely to come home. You make one as soon as you get there, to calm your nerves, but drink it slowly, don’t allow yourself another until you think he should be nearly home.

You don’t hear him coming in. He’s quiet, even though you’re wary. There’s a girl on his arm, but he freezes when he sees you. She doesn’t.

‘Who’s this, then?’ she says. 

‘I’m the wife, honey, who are you?’ you say.

‘What the fuck!?’ she shrieks. She slaps him across the face and storms from the room.

He doesn’t even watch her leave. He looks at you instead, his whole body tight with aggression. You’re not entirely sure if you’re scared or aroused.  _ You can handle him _ . You have to.

‘Where was my wedding invitation?’ he asks, cold and casual.

‘Must have gotten lost in the mail,’ you say. ‘Martini?’

He shakes his head and slams the door behind him.

‘What do you want?’

‘You, Strider. Was that not obvious?’

‘You don’t even know my first name,’ he spits.

‘What’s in a name?’ you say, playfully. You know his name. You know everything. 

Honestly, it’s hardly been a game, the way he’s given you all the information. That’s fine, though. You’ll teach him better. He walks closer to you, but he isn’t making any move to join you on his couch. He seems  _ very _ tall while you’re still seated.

‘I don’t know your name, either,’ he says.

‘Aw, you sure know how to make a girl feel desperate.’ You stand up, drain your martini and give him your hand. He takes it automatically. Good. ‘Roxy Lalonde, at your service,’ you purr.

‘Kid, you got some nerve.’

‘You don’t know the half of it.’

‘How’d you get in?’

‘Through the front door,’ you lie. He’s been locking it lately. You did it once, though. It’s close enough to the truth that you manage it. It’s important that you know your limits. When you tried to lie to him at the club it felt like your tongue swelled in your mouth until you told the truth. You felt like the thing you most wanted to say was the truth. That has almost never been the case for your entire life.

‘Go home, Roxy,’ he says.

Completely against all your plans, you do. The fucker. He can make you do things. 

Well, you’re going to assume there are limitations to this power. You’re good with limitations. He could really hurt you with it, but he chose not to. And he brought a girl home. You’re definitely in with a chance.


End file.
